Part 18 (1/2)

But the raspbery demon was sure of one thing. He really didn't want to hang from the ceiling anymore.

Amid the cries and weeping, as Kadjebeen leaned disconsolately on his image, he heard a familiar sound. From somewhere nearby, his master Lucifer was laughing. Kadjebeen listened, and in his present discouragement he had the idea Lucifer was laughing at him.

Long white wings: light, intricate, craftworthy. Melted like ice.

”No!” He shouted petulantly. Then louder. ”No. I'm tired of it. Always the best work is broken and the worst exalted. Always the back of the hand! Well, I won't anymore. I won't!”

And Kadjebeen, in excess of rage, sprang up in the air on his bandy legs and came down right on the cupola of his masterwork-the image of Lucifer's Hall.

He let out an ”oof and an ”ouch,” for the little object was pointed. But it was also fragile, and it splintered beneath his jelly-shuddering weight.

From the mountain beneath came the thud like that of a slamming door, magnified many times.

Kadjebeen stamped. Something s.h.i.+fted in the rock itself. The air popped.

But Kadjebeen hopped again and again, smacking his buboed surface against paper-thin walls. The image gave way.

The fortress of Lucifer gave way. Rock shuddered, deep in the earth. The thin air was loud with broken deceits and the cries of demons with their leashes snapped. The yellow light s.h.i.+ning around the corner went out.A fungoid silvery growth appeared on the black coils of the dragon, as Lucifer dragged himself frantically from the flesh of his victims. His shape solidified, grew hair, was dressed in white velvet.

He hurled himself through the air toward the gate of his palace, at the small figure standing by the shards of delicate stone.

It was not bulbous, not colored like a raspberry. It was a man, or the shade of a man: short, wiry, but not uncomely, with very strong arms and hands. His face was bearded and his eyes round and blue.

”No more, my Master,” said the shade, and the voice came to Lucifer from far away. The spirit pointed to its eyes, its body, and to its mouth. ”No one is made so badly as you would have them believe,” it whispered, and the bearded mouth smiled. Slowly the large, sail-white wings spread behind it and tested the air.

Smiling, the shade raised its strong arms and square, workman's hands. It rose and faded into a sky awash with the stars.

Flaming with curses, Lucifer fled away to recapture his scattered devils.

As a half-moon rose from behind the rock-tooth, the yellow eyes of the dragon answered its light.

The bladed tail twitched.

And Gaspare, in the pergola of the dragon's upturned hand, held Saara until she was warm again, and her eyes opened.

9.

Though the gla.s.sy night was the most comfortable time in late-summer Granada, the servants in their barracks were too tired to stay awake for it and Ras.h.i.+d and his wives were too well-fed. Only Raphael sat up, crouched half-naked beside the fish pond, and the fish circled at his feet. He was talking with Damiano.

”You look much better, I think,” the spirit was saying. ”Except for your nose.”

”My nose,” repeated Raphael. He touched that member for identification and winced at the result. ”It hurts. And it whistles when I breathe through it.”

Moonlight had bleached the gold from his hair and reduced the glorious color of his black eye to mere shadows. He glimmered as insubstantially as his friend the ghost.

Damiano's cloudy suggestion of a face drew closer and darkened in sympathy. He said, ”I can hear it.

A very musical sound, as befits a teacher of music. But I know a cure for the problem.”

”Tell me!” Though weeks of humanity had taught Raphael some sophistication, his face still reflected his every feeling, and now his perfect blue eyes (one of them rimmed in purple and green) pleaded with Damiano.

”It takes bravery.”

Raphael nodded soberly.

The spirits umbrous wings folded back. He added, ”It is not a magical but a musical cure.”

This did not seem to surprise Raphael at all.

”Take your hands,” began Damiano, ”and clap them in your lap.” The blond did so, but quietly, so as not to wake the slaves in the barracks.

”Now keep the rhythm and follow me, clapping whenever I clap.” The ghost went clap, clap, clap in his lap, making hardly a sound, and then raised his arms above his head and struck his ectoplasmic hands together. Raphael accompanied him in (of course) perfect time.

Three claps more above the knees and three in front at arm's length and three more in the lap andthen in front of the face, one, two, and...

Perhaps Damiano gave a nudge, or perhaps Raphael, in the heat of the performance, wasn't thinking quite what he was doing, but the third clap came hard and symmetrically down on his injured nose.

He gasped and rose half to his feet. ”I hit myself!” he cried aloud, and then, as greater understanding came to him, he added, ”You MADE me to hit myself!”

The spectral form wavered, perhaps through shame. ”But your nose: How is it now?”

Raphael gave a careful sniff. ”I smell blood,” he said, with a hint of petulance. ”But I think... I think...”

Again Damiano leaned close. ”I don't hear anything.”

Raphael, too, listened. ”No. Nothing. The whistle is gone.”

”And your nose is straight again. You'll be as handsome as ever.”

The blonds fine hands were locked protectively around the middle of his face, but his eyes turned to Damiano with sudden interest. ”Am I handsome? I never thought about it.”

Sadly Damiano smiled. ”You've never been a mortal before. Now you'll think about things like that: Are my teeth good? Is that a wrinkle or a spot forming by my eyebrow? Is that fellow a bigger, stronger, better man than I? It's the mortal condition; we don't seem to be able to help it.

”And another part of being mortal, Seraph. Hating. Do you hate your master yet?”

Raphael squatted down again. He lifted his eyes to the stars while the warm wind stirred his hair.

”My master? I feel bad that he hit me. He had never told me I was not supposed to mention that Djoura was a Berber in front of other Berbers. And how was I to know that Djoura's father had been sworn to Qa'id Hasiim years ago?

”And though I know Ras.h.i.+d had reason to be angry-he felt compelled to give a great gift of money to the Berbers in the Alhambra, as well as losing what he'd paid for Djoura- still, I'd rather not have to see him anymore. Somehow I don't like looking at him or hearing his voice.”

”Understandable.”

”Is it?” Raphael's left eyebrow shot up in a movement familiar to his student. ”I don't understand it.

After all, Ras.h.i.+d will be Ras.h.i.+d whether in my sight and hearing or not.